A WOMAN’S FEARS
The morning following the Rev. Philip Alletson’s extraordinary
experience found him rather pale, and in a decidedly nervous state of
mind. The shock to his system had been severe, and he had contracted a
slight cold through being exposed in the summer arbour.
He got out of bed with difficulty, feeling very seedy, and had to use
an effort of will to take his cold bath. He felt a little better after
the effect of the water, but he was longer than usual dressing, and
once or twice narrowly missed cutting himself whilst shaving.
However, he finished his toilet at last, and went down to breakfast
fifteen minutes late—a very unusual occurrence.
Beyond drinking some coffee, he scarcely touched the meal; instead, he
sat toying with his knife and looking out of the window.
His sister Constance surveyed him with troubled eyes. She was used
to his silent ways, but she could see that this morning he was not
his usual self; and the fear immediately arose in her mind that the
“old doubts”—which had not manifested themselves since they came to
Worlstoke—were again weighing upon him.
“Are you all right, Philip?” she asked doubtfully.
“Hardly; I’m afraid I’ve caught cold, and I feel rather out of sorts.”
She sighed with a sense of relief, feeling glad it was apparently
nothing worse.
“Do try and eat something; you have almost regained your normal
appetite since we came here, and I don’t want to see any signs of
it falling off. It makes me think of those dreadful days after your
illness, when I had to beg and entreat of you to take anything.”
Raising his eyes, he looked at her smilingly, and then managed to
swallow a few mouthfuls; but it was a poor attempt, and clearly done to
please her.
He had a great affection for his sister; indeed, although but
twenty-eight, and ten years his junior, she was his closest companion,
and had lived with him ever since the death of their mother some eight
years ago.
In contrast to her brother, Constance Alletson was rather below
than above the medium height, though well-built, with an upright
carriage. Her hair was of a fine rich brown, with an auburn tint; and
it well matched her fair skin and intelligent dark blue eyes. She
was undoubtedly attractive, without being exactly beautiful, though,
like her brother, she was reserved and possessed of the same nervous
disposition.
She critically watched her brother’s forced attempt to eat, and then
exclaimed:
“That’s better, though it doesn’t seem to go down very well, and it is
fish too, which I know you like.”
He looked apologetic: “No! I’m afraid I must give it up; I did not
sleep at all well last night, Constance.”
“Now that’s strange, Philip, _I_ could not rest. I kept dreaming in a
jumbled-up sort of fashion, though now and again quite vividly. Once
in particular, I remember it plainly: I had been running away from
something, as you do in dreams, though I didn’t know what it was, and
had just reached the Vicarage gate, exhausted. I had not even strength
to lift the latch to pass through into the house, and all the while
this terrible something was approaching nearer and nearer. I had given
up all hope and was preparing to be seized, when you suddenly stepped
in front of me, between me and the monster. All you seemed to do was to
hold up that little gold cross I gave you, which you wear round your
neck, and it seemed to be possessed of magical powers. The something
gave a horrid cry of baffled rage and fled, and as it went, it turned
into Mr. Brentwood!
“Ridiculous, wasn’t it?” she added laughingly.
Philip nodded his head in unconscious assent and eyed her curiously. He
was well aware that his sister possessed certain psychic powers—they
used to have private sittings together when in London —and he could not
help wondering whether she knew anything about his own experience. That
reference to the gold cross seemed strange. However, it was unlikely,
as she would almost surely have mentioned it before now.
Constance noticed his silence, and misreading it, continued:
“Of course, I know I don’t like Mr. Brentwood, he seems to be such a
cold-blooded and unsociable man—and I expect that is why he became the
bogey of my nightmare. I apologise, Philip, for maligning him—I know
that you and he are good friends.”
She drew herself up in mock dignity, and laughed merrily.
“I think you are rather hard on our neighbour, Constance—I don’t find
him unsociable, and I don’t think you would either, if you knew him
better. But why should you think he is cold-blooded?”
“Well, do you remember when you told him about the disappearance of
Miss Hobson?”
“Yes.”
“He never even altered his countenance—it didn’t affect him a little
bit. I know, because I was looking at him.”
“Rather thin evidence upon which to judge him, Constance.”
“Well, not only that, but I always had the impression, from the first
time I met him, that there was something wicked at the back of his
mind. Really, Philip, I don’t think I could trust him.”
The Vicar laughed in amusement; he had no answer for such reasoning.
There was silence for a few minutes, during which Constance finished
her breakfast, while her brother watched her.
Then he remarked:
“Ah! dreams are queer things.”
“Yes, Philip, I know some of mine are.”
“I suppose they all arise from stomach troubles?”
“I’m sure they all don’t, and you know they don’t,” she retaliated.
“Well, at least so we are told by our medical advisers.”
Constance laughed. “Now you are teasing.”
Suddenly she became serious:
“Have you heard anything more concerning the mystery?”
Her brother looked graver than usual, and shook his head.
“No. I called at the farm yesterday afternoon to see how Mrs. Hobson
was, and then learned that no clue had been alighted upon. I am sorry
for them—Hobson seems quite an old man, and his wife is still unable to
leave her bed.”
“Do you know, Philip, I think there is something unnatural about this
place.” She had lowered her voice, and was bending over the table, her
blue eyes gazing steadily into his grey ones.
Just for a second the Vicar’s face betrayed surprise; then he said
quietly:
“Well, go on.”
“These two extraordinary disappearances, which up till now have baffled
everybody—surely, if they had been——”
Her brother shook his head and frowned:
“You know, Constance, it is the usual thing to fly to the
‘supernatural’ to explain a problem when it baffles the reason.”
She gave a little gesture of impatience:
“Surely, Philip, you know me better than to think I should——”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” he interrupted. “I am quite sure you would not
jump to wild conclusions. I merely wanted to emphasise the point, as it
is important.”
“Well, my impressions on more than one occasion lately have been
exceedingly queer, and I am quite certain that there is something more
than unhealthy in the atmosphere.”
She spoke so forcefully that he could not help being impressed.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, rising, “I hardly know what to think. Still, I must
be getting on, I have a heap of work to do this morning.”
As he reached the door, she called him:
“Philip!”
He half turned, and she was by his side with her hand on his arm,
looking earnestly into his face.
“Something tells me that you are going to try and probe this mystery!”
He smiled and nodded. It was not the first time she had known things in
that way.
“Well, promise you will let me know all that you do. I am not easy
about it; I feel—er—that something may happen to you.”
He laughed reassuringly:
“Don’t worry, Constance, I will tell you all I do, and I won’t attempt
anything desperate. But I must do what I can to try and help clear the
thing up; it is my duty.”
She did not answer him, instead she turned to the table and busied
herself with the breakfast things.
He watched her for a few seconds, then opening the door, went to his
own little room—where he did his indoor work—and sat down at his
desk. His mind was a little easier now; it was a relief to find that
Constance had not any knowledge of the fainting fit which overcame him
in the garden. That would have needed some explanation, and he was not
prepared to say anything at present. Had he been found, there would
have been no alternative; for he had a plain, straight way of dealing
with things, and never paltered with the truth. He would not have
countenanced any idea of misleading anyone with regard to the cause of
his swoon, least of all his sister.
But he was very far from being tranquil. He was really obsessed with
the uncertainty of the whole matter, and, contrary to his natural
reserve, he had a desire to put the details before someone else.
Instinctively he thought of Constance, but immediately shook his head.
It might ease him to tell his sister, but it was more likely to upset
her, and further, he failed to see how it could help matters.
The only other person he could think of was his neighbour, the Master
of Storton. If accounts were true, and to some extent he knew they
were, Mr. Brentwood was the very man before whom to put such a case.
But there were difficulties in that direction. Although they were on
fairly intimate terms, the Vicar was not quite sure that he could trust
him with such a personal matter. His neighbour was not a Churchman, of
that he had no doubt; in fact, he was fairly sure that Mr. Brentwood,
if anything, was opposed to the Church. How then would he be likely to
treat such a matter coming from a clergyman?
Mr. Alletson was sensitive, extremely so; and he had no desire to
encounter the “sceptic’s smile.” He was quite well aware of the average
sceptic’s idea of clergymen, and although he knew it was not true, any
suggestion of it was liable to irritate, and he had no wish to cause
friction.
But there was the other side to it. His neighbour would perhaps take
him seriously, and really, so far as he knew, he was a man of broad
mind, and one not likely to dismiss the matter with ridicule.
Then again, why should he ask advice, particularly from a layman? Why
not go to the Bishop? The Vicar’s eyes twinkled, and he dismissed his
Lordship. No! he would let the thing keep, at any rate for the present.
So far as he knew, no actual harm had been done. He would wait and see.
As the morning advanced, he recovered somewhat from his indisposition.
His nervous system assumed a more normal state, and the depressed
feeling with which he had begun the day evaporated. By lunch time he
had almost forgotten the incident, in fact his mind was busily occupied
with parish matters.
Taking these things into consideration, it was curious that immediately
after lunch he went to his escritoire, opened it, took up pen and
paper, and wrote the following letter:
“+Dear Mr. Brentwood+,—Please excuse my importunity. I am taking
the liberty of calling upon you on Thursday morning next, at eleven
o’clock, and shall be very glad indeed if you will spare me an hour.
“The notice is exceedingly short, but as you know, my time is much
occupied, and I am anxious to see you immediately upon a matter
which is of grave importance.
“I feel sure you can help me, and you will do so when I have put
the case before you.
“I must add that I would not have troubled you in this abrupt
manner, if I did not feel that immediate action should be
taken.—Believe me, yours sincerely,
+Philip Alletson+.”
Every action connected with the writing of it was deliberate, from the
putting in of the date to sending the maid to the post. It looked as if
he had done it in spite of his recent decision, and this occurred to
him shortly after, when it was too late to retract.
He felt annoyed, it was not usual for him to go back on a decision,
once he had made up his mind. Why had he done it? He tried to think it
out, and failed to satisfy himself.
It was not very comfortable. Could it be that he was losing his grip on
things? “Umph.” Passing out into the hall, he put on his hat and cloak.
Really, he must dismiss it from his mind for the present. He had a big
afternoon’s work before him and time was getting on.
That evening, at the District Visitors’ meeting, the disappearance
of Miss Hobson was dwelt upon at some length. During the discussion,
something occurred to the Vicar which had not entered his head before.
What if his strange experience had any connection with it? At first he
rather ridiculed the idea; there seemed to be no link. But before he
went to bed that night the thought grew stronger and stronger, until he
began to take it seriously. If such were the case, then it no longer
remained a personal matter, and it would be his duty to consult someone
else.
Finally, he made up his mind to put the whole facts before Mr.
Brentwood on Thursday morning, irrespective of his personal feelings.
He was bound to do all he knew to try and clear up the extraordinary
mystery surrounding Miss Hobson and Mr. Thornton.